“Leave him alone,” Harvey murmured. “Please, he’s not a part of this, neither is Esther. Please, just let them go, it’s me who did this. Please…”
Pearson strode forward, slapped Harvey with a hard backhand. Esther let out a sobbing moan.
“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled. “You made them a part of this with your lies. Besides, hurting the innocent never seemed to bother you before.”
Hurting the innocent? Destroyed my life? Doug’s mind was racing, like he was trying pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and discarding them. Nothing fit, nothing made sense. He didn’t have enough of the picture. Harvey had covered Pearson’s trial, then lied about it to Doug’s face when asked if he recognised Pearson’s name, taking the coward’s option of cramming his cuts into his glove compartment to find later. Why? How had he ruined Pearson’s life? Why was the story missing from the Tribune archives? And where did Greig fit into all this?
A thought flashed across Doug’s mind. The archives. The switch from the physical copies of the Tribune to the online version that they used now. It was organised by the editor, administrated by senior reporters.
Like the crime reporter at the time.
“What else is missing?” he asked, turning to Harvey. “What don’t you want me to know, Harvey?”
Pearson clapped his hands slowly, the sound like gunshot in the silence of the lounge. “Very good, Doug, maybe Harvey did teach you a thing or two after all.”
He bent down, grimacing as he did, came back up with the file from the car.
“Here you go,” he said, throwing it at Doug. “I’m guessing from how quickly you got back here that you didn’t get a chance to read beyond the first article. Well, knock yourself out, it’s all there.”
Doug glanced between Pearson and Harvey. Harvey turned his head away.
“What? No, I’m not going to… Look,” – he glanced towards Esther – “she needs to see a doctor. Let me call one and we can talk this over, I can…”
Pearson strode over to him, grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Doug yelped, thrashed around in the sofa. “Fuck off! Let me go, you cunt, let me…”
His words died in his throat when he felt the scalding thrill of the knife blade against his skin. Then Pearson, whispering in his ear, the sound and smell of death.
“Read, cunt,” he whispered. “Believe me, it’s a great story. You’ll love it. And if you don’t, I’ll paint this place with your blood. Just like I did with Greig. I promise.”
Doug’s head snapped forward as Pearson let him go. Fighting back tears, he glanced between Esther and Harvey. No help at all. With shaking hands, he flipped open the file, turned past Harvey’s first report and started to read.
And, for the second time in three days, Doug McGregor’s life fell apart.
53
Susie and Eddie found a space in the car park at Waverley Station and made their way to Fleshmarket Close. It was early afternoon, and Susie was worried they would miss Diane if she’d already left the office for her afternoon meetings.
They were halfway up the stairs when her phone beeped. She reached for it, hoping it was Doug, disappointed when a number she didn’t recognise flashed up on the call ID display.
“Hello, DS Susie Drummond,” she said warily. Probably just a junk call.
“Hello, Detective Drummond? Sorry for calling you out of the blue like this, but I didn’t really see any other choice. My name’s Hal Damon, a friend of Doug McGregor’s.”
Susie cursed silently. Damon. This was the last thing she needed, a PR expert trying to smooth-talk her.
“Yes, Mr Damon. Doug’s mentioned you. How can I help?”
There was an edge of anxiety in the reassuring, measured tone that filled her ear. “Well, Ms Drummond, I’m afraid I’m only calling you because I couldn’t get a hold of Doug. You see, I think might have found something about the case you’re working on, and it seems too important to wait.”
Susie felt a stab of anger. Shit. What had Doug told this guy? He had promised her he would be discreet, check things out quietly and now, here she was, taking a call from Mr PR, who would no doubt demand a fee or something else for the help.
Sometimes, she thought, Doug McGregor was more trouble than he was worth.
“And what might that be, Mr Damon?” she said, noticing Eddie’s puzzled glance.
“It’s Hal, please. And, Susie, don’t be angry at Doug. Anything that I’ve found out is strictly confidential, okay? He asked for my help, but now I can’t contact him. Doug speaks very highly of you, and I think he’d want you to know.”
Her jaw ached gently as she ground her teeth together. So not only had Doug shared details of the case with this guy, he’s been talking to him about her – about them – as well. Perfect.
“I’m listening, Hal,” she said.
“Okay. Doug asked me to do a cuts check on Gavin Pearson, look into the coverage of his murder trial. I think he was trying to figure out the link between him and Greig and Charles Montgomery.”
Susie took a deep breath. So Doug had told this guy about the link between the cases as well. Fucking little shit.
“Anyway, I did some digging. There were a couple of things about the court copy that didn’t make sense to me. And while I couldn’t find a link to Greig in any of it, I may have found a link to Mr Montgomery.”
Susie jerked to attention as if electrified. “What?” she whispered, Eddie taking a subconscious step closer as she did. “What did you just say?”
“I said I think I’ve found your link between Gavin Pearson and Charles Montgomery,” Hal repeated. “I had some contacts check out the legal teams at the trial. Mr Pearson was, as you’d expect, prosecuted by the Crown. He was defended by a…” – a soft rustle of notes on the other end of the line – “James McDermott QC.”
Susie thought for a minute. The name meant nothing to her. “So?” she said.
“At the time of the trial, Mr McDermott worked for Wallace and Dean. They’re a fairly big firm in the city.”
Susie nodded. She knew the name, Wallace and Dean. Then it clicked.
“Oh, shit,” she whispered before she could stop herself.
“Indeed,” Hal said, amusement warming his tone. “Wallace and Dean, the same firm that Mr Montgomery worked for. Oh, and I checked. He was senior advising counsel on the Pearson case. Unfortunately, Mr McDermott died a couple of years ago, heart attack, but it’s an interesting link, don’t you think?”
Susie felt her mouth move soundlessly as she tried to fit that with what she knew.
“Yes,” she said dumbly, “yes, it is. Look, Mr Damon, I…”
“It’s Hal,” he said again. “And don’t worry, as I said, this is all confidential. My sources wouldn’t want to be involved in this, and my only concern is helping Doug out. And you, if I can.”
Susie had lost interest in the call, her mind too full of possibilities and theories. It was like turbocharging a car in a dead-end alley – all that power and nowhere to go. She was dimly aware that Damon was still speaking.
“Excuse me, what?”
“I was just saying to pass my regards on to Doug. And it was good to speak to you at last, Susie, he talks about you all the time.”
He clicked off, leaving Susie standing stunned and confused.
Interesting link, don’t you think?
Montgomery was senior advising counsel…
He talks about you all the time…
King spoke, breaking her from her thoughts. “What the hell was that all about? Who was that?”
Susie thought quickly. Risk missing Diane and call Burns now? Or try to get her before she left the office and take this to Burns later?
She glanced up the stairs. Decided.
“Just a friend,” she said. “With some very interesting news. Come on, let’s go and see what P
earson knows about Paul Welsh and Stevie Leith. Then we’ve got some lawyers to talk to.”
54
Doug skimmed the pages as fast as he could, feeling Pearson’s gaze boring into him as he did. He snuck glances at him as often as he dared, noticing the way he dropped his shoulders when he thought no-one was looking, wiped away sweat from his brow and rocked from foot to foot as if he couldn’t get comfortable.
Given what Doug was reading, he thought it was a fair bet that’s exactly what the problem was.
The file contained a series of articles from the Tribune, dated 1992. The subject? The trials of a brave war veteran who had come home from war, only to find his health ruined and his body failing him. The articles featured extensive interviews with Gavin and Diane Pearson talking about his failing health, the battle to get Gulf War Illness recognised, the fact that no-one, from doctors to MPs to the Army itself, was listening. They were well-written, in-depth pieces, factual, engaging, relaying the human cost of what was happening to Gavin and Diane without going for the cheap emotional gutshot or the “I fought for our country and now I’m dying” sensationalism of the red tops.
Flicking through, Doug could see there were eight articles in total, spread over a period of about three months. Speaking “from their small neat home in a new-build housing development in Fife”, the Pearsons described Gavin’s return from war, the first signs of health problems – “It was a lung problem, I couldn’t stop coughing, couldn’t get my breath” – to his battle to hold down a job and the strain on their marriage.
“Of course it’s tough,” Diane was quoted as saying. “He was a strong, fit man when we first met. Now he’s a shadow of that, almost holding his breath to see what goes wrong with him next. We jump at every shadow, every cough, every wheeze, every mark on his skin. We still love each other, of course we do, but it puts an enormous strain on us.”
The articles stopped with a report that, following a trip to the doctor, Gavin had a “severe flashback incident” and had to be restrained and hospitalised.
Every one of the articles was written by Jonathan Greig.
Doug scanned them again, searching for a reference to Harvey. As far as he could see, there was no connection other than the court copy, which had run more than a year after the initial features on Gavin’s plight.
So what…?
Doug shucked the folder pack into order, looked up at Pearson, who was now leaning on the back of a chair. At least he’d sheathed the knife again.
“Look, Mr Pearson, Gavin. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, really I am, but I don’t see how this…”
Pearson sneered, barked something halfway between a cough and a laugh that made Esther flinch in her seat. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “That’s the way these fuckers wanted it. Your old boss is a clever man, Doug. Knows just how to tell a story; just what to tell, just what not to.”
Doug glanced at Harvey, confused. “I don’t know what you’re… Still don’t see…”
“Fucking tell him!” Pearson roared, in a voice that sounded like it was dipped in tar.
Harvey jerked in his seat, turned to Doug, couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes.
“Douglas, I’m sorry, I only did what I thought was right, only…”
“Stop fucking snivelling and tell him!” Pearson shouted again, his voice diminished. Doug looked at him, wondered how strong he really was. All this standing and talking was taking it out of him, and if half of what he had read was true…
“Why don’t you tell me,” he said, standing up before he could talk himself out of it. “There’s obviously something I’m missing here. I don’t see…” He paused, took a breath.
Fuck it.
“I just don’t see how any of this justifies you blowing Greig away, beating Charlie Montgomery to death and killing your own son. That is what happened, isn’t it, Gavin?”
Pearson exploded forward, catching Doug with a vicious uppercut that made his teeth clatter together and snapped his head back. He weaved back, trying to get his footing, trying to concentrate over the roaring in his ears and the blurring in his eyes.
Pearson lunged again, huge hands clawing for Doug’s throat. Doug managed to side-step then, in desperation, threw his arms around Pearson in a bear hug. He clung on as hard as he could, using his momentum to swing him to the left and try to throw him over.
Pearson staggered away, crashed into a coffee table, but managed to keep his feet. Swayed as he came to a stop. His eyes bottomless pits, teeth bared, nose flaring as he heaved for breath.
“You fucking little shite,” he whispered. He bent over double and, for an instant, Doug felt a thrill of hope. He had been right, he was too exhausted and ill to go on. He took a half step forward. Stopped dead when he saw Pearson straighten up with a small gun, taken from an ankle holster, held in his massive hand as though it were a toy.
“Fucking shite,” he repeated, taking a step forward. Doug shuffled back on numb legs, arms outstretched. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gun. The dead, empty eye of the barrel, the way it was trained on his chest. The dull glint in the light.
Susie, his mind blurted, this is what Susie would have seen.
Pearson advanced on him, blinking away the sweat that was streaming into his eyes. He twitched to the right sharply, noticing Harvey getting ready to move on the sofa. “Bit late for fucking heroics, isn’t it, Harvey?” he heaved. “Sit the fuck down.”
Doug was babbling, his thoughts filled with blind panic. “Look, Gavin, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Just tell me what you want and I’ll, I’ll…”
The gun crashed into his jaw, a massive hammering blow that took Doug off his feet. The side of his face exploded with pain as hot, coppery blood flooded into his mouth. He turned to the side, gagging, spluttering, spat a huge wad of blood onto the floor, knew there was a tooth in there somewhere. He tried to move, tried to get his legs to work, but he was seized by shock and fear. His hands flailed uselessly as Pearson landed on him, straddling him with his massive legs.
He leered down at Doug, a horrible smile twisting his face into a death mask. His skin was ashen, his eyes bloodshot and filling with tears, blood was starting to drip slowly from his nose.
“Please, don’t, please, I don’t, I mean, I…” Doug mewled; hatred, anger, panic and shame churning through him as tears streamed down his cheeks. “Please, I…”
Gavin slapped him once, brought the gun up to eye level. His voice was amazingly calm.
“You’re not too fucking bright, Douglas, are you? You’ve got it all the wrong way round. Ask your boss over there, what was happening in all those long cosy interviews with Di? If he doesn’t tell you, don’t worry, I’ve left you another little present in your boot. It’s in the spare-tyre well. It should explain everything.”
“Okay, I’ll look, anything you want, oh please, Jesus, just don’t…”
Pearson leaned back, the sound of the gun’s safety clicking off was very loud. “What I want?” he whispered. “Good question. I wanted a happy life. A healthy son. A happy marriage.” He laughed. “So much for that idea. Guess I’ll just have to settle for telling the story your cunt of a boss never had the balls to.”
He brought the gun up, pointed it straight between Doug’s eyes. Doug thought his heart might explode before the shot; the panic, the terror.
…Susie…
Suddenly, Pearson pulled the gun away. Leaned down to Doug as though he were going to kiss him. Whispered four words in his ear. Four words that cut straight through the panic and the terror and the dread.
He sat back up, looked down at Doug, the tears growing heavier. Looked over at Harvey, dropped him a wink. “He knows,” he whispered.
Then he brought the gun up to his temple and blew his own brains out.
55
The receptionist at Diane’s office blushed as she gave Eddie an
d Susie an apology. “I’m sorry, Mrs Pearson left a little while ago for a late lunch.”
Eddie and Susie exchanged looks. Shit.
The receptionist glanced between them. Hesitated, then added: “But if it’s urgent, she sometimes goes to the American diner around the corner on the Mile. You know, the one just down from the City Chambers?”
Susie saw the place in her head. She’d been there a few times herself. Good cocktails.
They thanked the receptionist, headed back down the stairs and on to Cockburn Street. Took the short, steep walk up to the Mile and turned right, towards the diner.
“So, you going to tell me who that call was from?” Eddie asked as they walked.
“Can’t,” Susie said. “Got to protect my sources.”
Eddie snorted. “Sources? You’ve been hanging around that prick McGregor and Rebecca for too long.”
Susie let the jibe go, grabbed for her phone instead. No calls or messages from Doug. Odd, it wasn’t like him to be out of touch for this long. Even on the road, he normally couldn’t go half an hour between phone checks.
She stopped outside the diner. She had wanted to talk to Diane first, clear up the link to Welsh and Stevie Leith, then concentrate on what Hal had told her. But there was no guarantee that she would be in there, which would mean more wasted time. And she needed something to give Burns, now.
She turned to Eddie. “Go on in and see if she’s in there, will you? I’m going to brief the boss.”
He pulled a face that said she got to do all the fun stuff, then pulled open the door and trudged inside. It was a large place, with a dining area at the back and a long, lounge-style bar at the front where single diners could eat and have a quick drink. She thought it would take him at least five minutes to cover the place. Plenty of time.
She dialled Burns’s number, tried to ignore the growing nerves as she waited for him to answer.
The Storm Page 21
